


Just Once

by xosadie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Gen, M/M, Pining, Sad Sherlock, Unrequited Love, idk its just sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:52:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xosadie/pseuds/xosadie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows where it is at all times.</p><p>Sewed into the mattress, hidden inside fake books, tucked behind junk in the drawer no one uses.</p><p>He stopped using two years ago. Not since he met John. </p><p>But he always knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Once

He knows where it is at all times.

Sewed into the mattress, hidden inside fake books, tucked behind junk in the drawer no one uses.

He stopped using two years ago. Not since he met John. 

But he always knows.

\--

Today is a bad day. 

Sherlock’s mind races from one topic to another, desperately lost within his own head. Facts spill out his ears, bubble on his tongue, and he thinks he might drown in his own knowledge.

_Dopamine and the neurotransmitter serotonin (uses: mood, appetite, sleep, memory, learning, happiness) reduce the other’s amount in the brain; the more dopamine, the less serotonin, and on the cycle goes._

_The red-tailed hawk, native to North America, weighs an average 1.36-1.81 kilos with a 1.524 meter wingspan._

_Funnel-web spider venom is neurotoxic and causes sweating, muscle jerking, salivation, and tears; eyes may water just looking at one._

He squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose, and tries to breathe.

John went out an hour ago, on what he claimed was a “date”, though his posture and heart-rate suggested minimal interest. Distaste, almost. Why he kept up this useless facade was beyond Sherlock. Anyone with an half-way capable brain could deduce that John was kidding himself. Forcing his body into a mold that would never quite fit.

But despite Sherlock’s efforts, John kept going out, mask tightly secured for everyone to see. And each time, it hurt a bit more.

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at the bookshelf. _The Psychopathology of Everyday Life by Sigmund Freud._

Slowly, carefully, he stands up from his chair and pulls the book out from its place. A thick film of dust lies undisturbed over the cover, untouched. Desolate.

 _Just once_ , he thinks. _Just once to make it stop_.

He lays the book out on the coffee table, flips it open, and there it is. Just like he had left it. The sweet release he so desperately needs.

Pin-prick of needle breaking skin. Tingling. Rushing.

Sherlock lets his head fall backward, his eyes glassed over, head foggy. 

Silence.

\--

“ _What is this_?”

John’s voice is a knife through the air and Sherlock feels it deep in his chest. He opens one eye, not completely, and stares at him.

John is standing above him, holding the syringe and other various things he was never supposed to see. The sky outside is pitch dark but the constellation visibility suggests it’s close to dawn.

“Nothing,” Sherlock mumbles, pushing himself off the floor where he was lying and onto his knees. “It’s nothing.” His hands tremble and his head kills. His fingers graze his nose and come away bloody. _Caught red handed, it seems_.

John doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just stands there, parade’s rest, and stares. But his eyes say everything for him and Sherlock knows that this is unlike the other times. There’s no sympathy there, no clouded judgement. For the first time since they met, John is well and truly done.

Sherlock opens his mouth to explain himself but John holds up a hand. “Don’t. Just _don’t_.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air. Minutes tick by. An ambulance wails in the distance.

“How could you do this?” John asks finally.

“I need it,” Sherlock says, desperately trying to make John understand. He must understand. “You don’t know what it’s like up here.” He taps the side of his head. “There’s just _too much_.”

John shakes his head. “No. You don’t get it. I don’t want justifications. It’s been weeks of that and I’m done. I just want to know: How could you do this _to me_?”

This time, Sherlock has no answer.

“Two years,” John whispers, as if to no one at all. “And I really thought I knew you.”

John turns on his heels and leaves the flat without another word.

\--

Don’t be foolish. Come back. - SH

Things are different. - SH

I promise. - SH

 

\--

He counts the marks on the crook of his arm. His eyes blur and his skin feels hot. When he turns his head sideways, they almost make a face.

Food rots in the fridge. Dust clogs the air.

For the first time in months, Sherlock feels nothing.

\--

You forgot your chair. - SH

Please, Sherlock. Just stop. - JW

\--

He’s done too much.

There’s vomit on his shirt and he can’t feel his feet. Sherlock tries to stand up but his limbs are noodles, unable and unwilling to work. Nothing works anymore.

Slowly, he manages to pick his phone up off the table. He thinks about calling an ambulance, but the average arrival time in London is eight minutes approximately and he knows it’s too late. 

His fingers shake as he presses the keys. It takes him six tries.

I’m sorry. - SH

\--

“Sherlock! Wake up, Sherlock.”

The voice is muddled and he strains to open his eyes.

John is kneeling beside him on the floor and for a fleeting moment, Sherlock thinks he’s dead. This is heaven, it has to be. _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

“John,” Sherlock says. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and tastes of metal. 

“Oh, thank god,” John whispers. He pulls Sherlock up into him and lays his head in his lap, softly smoothing Sherlock’s hair. “You’re alright.”

“What happened?” Sherlock manages. Tears prick his eyes and fall down his cheeks. Everything is hazy. Warped. He doesn’t understand.

“Mrs. Hudson phoned me. She found you... like this.” John takes a deep breath and pauses for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is impossibly quiet.

“I shouldn’t have left you. I knew you needed help and I just... I’m sorry.”

Sherlock opens his mouth but closes it before he can say anything. Truthfully, he doesn’t know how to respond and his head is so dizzy that he’s not sure he could speak if he tried.

“It’s okay,” John says, reading Sherlock’s mind. Always. “You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just get you cleaned up, okay?”

As John lifts Sherlock off the floor, tucked into his body as if it were made for that purpose alone, Sherlock never wants him to let go. Because without John’s arms around him, keeping the pieces safely in place, he might never be whole again. And now that he knows what it feels like to be held, he can’t imagine anything else.

\--

John moves back in the next day and Sherlock tells him about the hiding places, all the nooks and crannies and secret stashes. It takes time to build the trust back up to where it was, and while Sherlock hates to admit it, he knows they might never be the same. 

But maybe different is good.

\--

“How are you feeling?”

Sherlock looks up from his microscope. John stands in the doorway of the kitchen, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. His hair is slightly damp around the roots and he smells of aftershave, something new. Sherlock makes a mental note to check the bathroom cabinet.

Slowly, Sherlock cocks his head to one side, eye dropper still pinched between his fingers. “Fine. Why?”

John shrugs and looks down at his shoes, a nervous habit Sherlock has had catalogued since day one. Among the list are deviated eye contact, rapid blinking, and divergence back to military posture. 

John clears his throat. “I was just wondering. You know, it’s been a few weeks and I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. You know - without it.”

His words come out rushed and jumbled, but suggest previous preparations. Rehearsal. 

Stage fright.

“Well, thank you for your concern. But as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.” Sherlock shoves up his sleeve halfway to reveal the three nicotine patches on his forearm. “Not even a smoke.”

For a moment, John doesn’t seem able to respond and Sherlock turns his attention back to the petri dish.

When John had moved back in, Sherlock thought things might be different. Not completely, no, but something about John’s actions the night of Sherlock’s overdose -- the careful hands, tone of voice, tender touch -- suggested change. But it didn’t take him long to realize their little act was still firmly in play. 

A painful study in silence and ignorance. Sherlock doesn’t say it and John pretends he doesn’t know.

\--

Sherlock lies awake at night and catalogues John’s smiles with their respective moods.

\--

He didn’t get rid of it all.

Hidden under a false board, right beneath the coffee table.

One night, when John is out pretending, Sherlock sits down in his chair and recites the Arabic alphabet. He gets sidetracked each time before he can finish, brain firing all signals at once, and he thinks his head might explode right then and there.

His eyes hover over the spot on the floor. His finger taps the armrest.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

The warmth of John’s arms still lingers on Sherlock’s skin. Nothing but pain and aching memory. An eternal burn that just won’t quit.

 _Maybe_ , he thinks.

 _Just once_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. It truly means the world. I've always been intrigued by Sherlock's drug abuse and found it very fun (and also sad) to explore it. Please leave a comment and make my day, as feedback is always appreciated :)


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